


swimming with sharks

by x (ordinary)



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Adrenaline Junkie, An unnecessary amount of it truth be told, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Clones, Cock & Ball Torture, Consensual Violence, Danger Kink, Death Wish, Drug Use, Enthusiastic Consent, Humiliation, I feel the need to say that Octane is going to be the initiator here, M/M, Major Character Injury, Masturbation, Poison, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Resurrection, Risk CHASING Consensual Kink, Rough Sex, Sadism, Sex Before Death, Temporary Character Death, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-06-25 17:30:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19750435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: When Octane gets caught in one of Caustic's traps, something interesting happens: he gets curious.--In which it's fine to have a death wish if you're nigh immortal. A whole lot of wishes, in fact.





	1. Observation

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, hm. I've attempted to tag the incoming content appropriately, but I may have missed something? This will have sexual content while dying, knowing that you'll be coming back just fine from it, but it won't get there for a bit.
> 
> Please do let me know if I am missing any tags or fucked up any Spanish, I'd appreciate it!
> 
> My full lore headcanons have been attached as an end note, but the tl;dr is everyone has clones with inserted consciousnesses and dying feels real because it **is** real.
> 
> Title is from ["What's Up Danger"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y88LVU7MAe4)

Octane chases danger like a moth does a flame, circling around it like Icarus did the sun. What's left when you flay away the the fame, the glory, and the clout?

An addict.

* * *

Octane grins wide, half feral with bloody teeth and pure adrenaline. His goggles are cracked and his mask is torn, and the tell-tale green glow from his last stim is quickly fading from his veins. From his eyes. The gunshots behind him have quieted, but _ay, Dios mío_ that doesn't mean it's _safe_. He slides out of runoff at top speed, pulse thundering in his ears as he touches down in the slums. Scrambling up and over a wall, he does math in his head as fast as he runs. 

Behind him lies the devastation of four squads colliding, his squadmates' boxes lying among them in the full rainbow of blue and purple and _yellow_ littering the dirty mud. Wistfully, he longs for Bloodhound's kitted out spitfire, sparing a second to sadly gaze at the wingman he has instead. How much time did he have? Two minutes, tops? He remembers the telltale purple sparks flying off of armor _way better_ than his own, grimacing. If they decided to chase after the sole survivor instead of digging through loot, he was totally fucking fucked. 

His grin gets wider, chest heaving with ecstatic anticipation. _Come and fucking get some_ , he thinks, sliding across the wooden bridge to the northern side of slums. His body stays in overdrive as he races towards the respawn beacon, ducking and weaving through the labyrinth of storage containers. Normally he'd lay down a jump pad in an instant, but right now he needs to keep out of fucking sight. 

Only one banner is tucked into his belt, because attempting to grab Wraith's had ended up with Mirage's triple take getting him _good_. The blue flicker of his helmet faded as the whistle of a precision choke'd fire cleaved through it. He'd have a roasted eye if it weren't for his goggles, but his mask hadn't quite done him the same kind of favor. Now he's got a burn cauterizing a clean line from lip to cheekbone, deep and bursting with pain.

Yeah, he's got _no_ interest in getting another one, not when he's clean out of shield cells and riding the _wide open_ zipline towards waterfall. Instead, Octane grabs another stim and shoves its needle _deep_ into his chest ( _press firmly until click!_ ) to juice himself back up again.

A trickle of blood leaks down his forehead, wet and tacky, and the taste of copper lingers in his mouth. He just has to get to the jump tower at waterfall to get this show back on the road, a mantra he repeats to himself as he ducks into one of the final buildings. It's too risky to call down Bangalore's shiny new body here, and it's such a bummer. He guesses he can just cut through the pit and use the one just south of it, maybe head to the checkpoint north of bunker--

And then a _pop_ and a _hiss_ blow up in his face. Noxious yellow-green gas fills his vision and fills his lungs, burning like a bitch. Shit, fuck, fuck, _carajo!_ Caustic traps. Octane whips around to try and catch sight of the man, but already he feels his motions slow, his wounds stinging with renewed and intensified pain. His nerve endings are on fire, and there are starbursts behind his eyes as the poison seeps in.

He's _really_ done it now. Octane follows his instincts blindly, with a single-minded focus that constantly gets him in all sorts of trouble, and this time is no exception. Wheezing, he forces himself to wade through the gas as his limbs slowly go numb, escaping it just barely in time. A second longer and he would have been totally downed, would have _lost_. He sucks in huge gulps of fresh air and ducks around a corner, dropping to his knees to fumble for a med kit. His hands are clumsy, fingers uncooperative. His exposed eye waters enough that he can't keep it open, and when Octane coughs, it's wet, like there's blood in his lungs. 

Distantly, he realizes there probably _is_. Huh.

Fuck, is it normally this bad? How do people without a mask handle this shit at all? Normally, Octane just jumps over this stuff, or has the benefit of a squadmate being a little bit-- just a _little_ eensy-weensy bit-- more careful than he is. 

Ugh. Just a few seconds. Just a _few_ seconds is all he needs to get back up and running, to give him enough stamina to fling down a jump pad and stim his way out of trouble. But there's no gunshots, no call outs. No grenades. No artillery. How much trouble could there actually be? Maybe Caustic has just left a trap behind, a little _gift_ for anyone following in his footsteps--

Well. Speaking of footsteps. A pair grow closer, walking rather than running, so no wonder Octane didn't hear him coming. He's no self-professed genius, but even _he_ can figure out who's coming. To confirm it, another gas trap drops in front of him _right_ as the med kit finishes its job, and Octane winces, eyes flicking up. "Ah," he says, although it comes out in a gasping wheeze, "Caustic! You're, ah, not here to sell me cookies, eh?"

Through the renewed toxic haze, Caustic's gaze on him is clinical, if not apathetic. His head cocks to the side like a predator examines its prey, brown eyes sharp behind his mask. Octane wishes he could pluck it off of the man's face, and the goggles too, giggling a little in his delirious agony at the realization that he _is_ prey. He's a fly that's wandered into the spider's web, and someone normal would be terrified, or nervous, or _something_. Not him. Octane's missing that little niggling voice that tells you to get out of the way of danger before it gets too close. No, Octane dives towards it, head over heels into disaster by _choice_.

He's cheated his way out of death facing Caustic before, he can do it again. Probably. Maybe. So in the wake of Caustic's silence, Octane smirks, face turned upwards like a flower facing the sun. "What are you waiting for, _amigo_?" Every breath is miserable, a rattling cough in his chest overtakes him as he slams a syringe into his bicep to keep from being downed. He can't figure out why he hasn't been shot yet. If the tables were turned, Octane would gleefully pop him in the head, bang-bang. That's just how it is out here-- you gotta go and you gotta go _fast_. What's this guy _doing_?

"You are... another trial," Caustic says blandly, "another test subject." He looks out the window, scanning the horizon for enemies. _To make sure there are no witnesses_ , he realizes, and it makes sense. At least he's got the self-preservation for that. It seems like none of Octane's would-be pursuers are making the effort to find him-- So the only company they have is the waterfall roaring in the distance and a screaming flyer that's decided its playpen is going to be the pit.

Octane tries to hold back a laugh at how _ridiculous_ he sounds. Like everyone else in the games, Caustic's ego is the size of a moon, but he's the only one that's decided to be so...

Dramatic. 

The snort slips out and so does a mouthful of blood, and Octane spits it on Caustic's boots. "Hurry up and finish it then, _compadre_ ," he teases, "I'm getting _bored_." The syringe does its job, and he pushes himself up off his knees, wingman out as soon as he's steady. "And dude, what does that even mean, anyway? 'Another trial'? "You taking notes on me, man? I'm honored!"

His finger is on the trigger. His finger is on the trigger and it's ready to fire-- he doesn't need a head shot to do some real damage with it, and he's already racked up a few kills this match. He really should shoot him: time is a precious commodity, especially to him. But his instincts are screaming for him to stick around, warning bells that go off in his head like bombs at the prospect of danger. It's the surest sign that he should _stay_.

Caustic sighs, disappointed. He seems put upon: annoyed by the question, and by Octane. "I must perfect the compound." It comes across condescending, and he makes no move to unholster his own gun, not that he needs it. A gloved hand rests on a grenade on his hip, and it sticks out like a sore thumb. It sure looks happy to see him, unlike its owner. "There are many willing bodies who enter the games, ripe for the harvest. My work must be...tested. Rigorously."

A curious lilt colors his next words. "Plus, few who encounter my traps deign to stay in my presence of their own volition."

Octane's heart takes a swan dive off a cliff. He jiggles his prosthetic leg, and his foot taps against the concrete in impatience. He looks out towards the pit himself, eyes sliding back to Caustic, narrowing. " _Amigo_ ," he says, slowly, "where's your squad?" _Mierda_ , did this motherfucker choke them to death too? Did it even work that way? He's never been on this guy's team (although-- it _would_ be interesting, to see if he could be bait and lure people back to his traps--) and had no idea if he was just an idiot out here on his own, or _what_. 

He gets a dry laugh in response. "Whatever foolish thing you've convinced yourself of, _discard_ it." Shit, if he thought the guy was condescending _before_ , well. Now he's back in school again, getting lectured. He feels his cheeks burn, and not even in the very real-- and still _very_ present-- major injury way. But with... shame, which makes him swallow back another mouthful of _probably_ blood, licking his teeth instead. "I enter the games not for the prize, but for the... opportunity. I have no interest in eliminating my team, although they may find their untimely ends should they not follow my heed."

He's gotten ahead of himself, letting his mind spiral this much out of control. Without the ability to do the one thing he's good at-- _going_ , and going _fast_ \-- he's adrift. Unmoored. Octane chews on the inside of his cheek, and the Announcer rings out that the ring is closing. While they're fine for now, the next one is down in skulltown of all places, and _man_ , that's far. He groans, knowing that he should just fucking _go_ , evil lecture be damned, especially now that his regenerating has had time to work its magic. But he wants to _know_ , he wants to understand why Caustic would be willing to forego victory every time, even if it means sacrificing one of his own.

Well. That's the crux of it, isn't it?

This isn't a match that _really_ matters. His camera is busted up to hell, has been since been getting an EVA-8 to the chest down in airbase. That means no audience for now, cut off from his adoring fans. He's down one squadmate, so even if he does manage to get Bangalore back up, there's no telling how it'll go. Her box has probably been picked through, if not by the winning squad then someone else. They're far enough in the game that getting her geared back up is going to be a tedious trial-- nothing he hates more than having to both slow down AND be generous and let other people take the good shit. Plus, he's going to need to drop her a bunch of syringes that he'd rather hoard so he can go _faster, faster, faster_.

Still, it doesn't mean he wants to outright _lose_. He never does. He never _has_. Octane's competitive streak is miles wide and change: there's nothing quite like downing an entire squad, the thrill of landing the final kill, of being declared the champion for all and sundry to _know_. His name is known all over the Outlands! It never gets old!

But... The reason he'd blown off his legs all that time ago wasn't _because_ of any of that. He'd started on his ever escalating journey to do things no one else ever has because of the very real risk that he might not make it. The rush that comes with knowing he's doing something that's a bad fucking idea and then doing it anyway because _god_ , it feels _good_. Everything else is just details and drug paraphernalia. 

So, yeah. The shame from being scolded spreads into something warm and _ecstatic_ in his chest as Octane realizes that he's got a chance to get that feeling all over again. He's died again, and again, and again in the games. It's rote by now, familiar. If he dies _right_ here, _right_ now, it won't fucking matter. He just gets to come back in a fresh body, respawned and recovered. There's nothing new about it. The games are normal now, and when they're not full of constant action, even a little boring. Death by bullet or by ring or by arc star is as familiar as a lover-- and then the pieces of a terrible puzzle slowly piece themselves together. It's a bad, _bad_ idea, but Octane can't pull himself away from it. It's like trying to avert your gaze from an explosion, or from a car crash.

It's like holding grenades in your hands, ready to propel yourself along as fast as possible, knowing that it could cost you life and limb in the process. Intoxicating. 

Octane asks himself: what do people do when their love life gets boring?

_They try something new._

Octane throws back his head and laughs uproariously, stopping only to pound at his chest as he chokes in the middle of it, the lingering poison in his veins not quite gone. "That's the _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard!" he crows, putting his gun away, pulling his broken goggles up and his ruined mask down to give the trapper a giant, shit-eating grin that reaches his eyes. It contorts his whole face into eagerness incarnate. "You'd give up all your wins for what, some grand plan or something, _compadre_? Who even _does_ that?" 

"A scientist," Caustic sneers. "Chasing knowledge is clearly something that _you_ could never understand." Octane can tell he's a little-- flustered is the wrong word, but slightly off-kilter. Octane is a new _variable_ , not yet recorded. That's what this guy _feeds_ on, right? Testing things? Octane just has to keep that going to-- well. Not survive. Like, _literally_ not survive. 

"You didn't answer my first question," Octane says, sing-song. "Only the second one!" He nods at the gas grenade and then winks at the other man, then taps at his chest with two gloved hands. "Come on, hit me then. Or you can drop another trap, if you want, _amigo._ Don't you want to see what happens if I stay?"

A pause. Caustic is truly considering it, weighing his options, but ultimately finding Octane wanting.

"No," he says, and the grenade hits the ground, the air around them blooming into billowing, noxious gas.


	2. Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octane thinks about what he's done, and about what he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's where it gets kind of weird.

Octane comes to with a gasp, heart hammering in his chest as old memories reconfigure themselves in a new body. He sucks in huge breathes of clean--albeit recycled-- air, blinking his way awake before flopping back on his bed. He feels shaken, not stirred, even though all the aches and pains of combat and injury and _death_ have been wiped clean. A reset to factory default.

Like every morning, he idly counts every scar-- starting from his legs-- in a routine that had grown rote in ten seconds flat. The burns on his thighs until the seam where flesh meets metal. The metal implants on his stomach that keep his legs going the way they should. The evidence of torn eyebrow and lips from piercings ripped out of place. The bump of his broken nose. His chipped tooth. Twisting, he bends an arm up his back to map the edges of old road rash scars. 

All accounted for. 

These are the bumps and scrapes that tell the story of a life well-lived, meticulously recreated every time he dies and then lives to tell the tale. It's the same as anyone who enters the games: this sort of suspended animation of immortality is part of the contract they make you sign in triplicate. 

You live, you die, you are reborn in flesh and digitally stored consciousness. 

_Kind of boring, if you ask me._

Scars are the evidence that you've done anything interesting. Octane rubs at where his cheek had been seared by an bolt of energy, and the rest of his demise comes back to him seeps into his veins, a maelstrom of agony and noxious poison that he'd willingly let filter in his lungs. The way he'd poked and prodded at a deadly animal just to see what would happen. Ah, the shit he did when his curiosity got the best of him, and even in the weak light of early morning, he doesn't regret it. Thinking about it makes his pulse quicken: staring death in the face with a smile has always been his modus operandi-- _n_ _on terrae plus ultra._

The compound is still, quiet. The hustle and bustle of the day won't be for a few more hours, and already Octane can feel the itch to go _run_. He never really sleeps more than a few hours a night, finds it difficult to settle down with a mind that races as fast as he does. Always has. It's when he gets some of his best (worst) ideas, and this is no exception.

He lingers on his last moments like you do a fine wine, swirling it around in his mind, dipping his toes back into his final moments.

_Pain stops having meaning, after long enough._

_Bleeding out is nothing new: your vision blurs, your body fails, your heart ticks down like a countdown to the new year: 3, 2, 1, and then it's put out not with a bang, but a whimper. He's taken bullets to the chest and shotguns to the head. He's had his neck sliced to ribbons with Wraith's kunai, has had mortars explode on his head with ringing ears._

_It's not quite like this, though._

_This is slow, this is **agonizing** , and that is its design. He claws at his throat as blood and spittle pour out from his lips like water from a fountain, and above him is the ever judgmental Caustic, observing his death to the end. The warning for the next ring sounds off through the arena, and it means the other man will be leaving him soon. He should be already; maybe he has a surplus in healing that will make the journey down to skulltown trivial._

_Not that it matters. Nothing matters, except the collection of his data. Of how Octane's life slips out of him like a writhing eel, convulsions wracking his body._

_Everything hurts. There's a sticky wetness in his tear ducts, and none of his limbs cooperate. He can't even crawl towards Caustic, his head tipped upwards in petrified benediction. His throat works uselessly as he's forced to inhale more and more gas with every passing moment, and something--_

_Something shifts._

_(Both within and without him, both inside and outside him.)_

_Something shifts as Caustic crouches down in front of him. A large, gloved hand cups Octane's chin. His grip is firm, despite how Caustic jerks him closer, his voice is distant, drowned by the roaring shores in his ears. "This is why," he confesses, not unkindly. "Without pain, the body suffers in silence, and I **do** enjoy watching the labor of my efforts bear fruit. The ways different specimens meet their end is simply remarkable."_

_Octane's eyes slide closed, and a wave of calm overtakes him. Then he is subsumed by the sweet darkness of his demise._

In the now, that calm returns to Octane's chest, stilling the tapping of his fingers against his sheets. His throat is dry, and warmth spreads like liquid pooling in his limbs. It had been-- it had been objectively terrible. Fucking awful. Octane flexes all of his fingers for the joy of knowing they're back to being nimble. Caustic is malevolence at its finest, absolutely certain of his place at the top of the food chain. The grandstanding is secondary to his interests, his perversion of observing the final moments before a life is snuffed out. He'd said as much, but it was unnecessary. It had been evident in the way he'd looked at Octane in those final moments, a stark contrast to what it had been before.

Octane gulps, pulse quickening like a hare ready to bolt. A traitorous hand slowly smooths itself over his belly, the callous touch electric against his skin. 

He wonders how many people Caustic has spoken to, like that. With an edge of interest amidst the derision. He'd said only a few people had, right? Stayed like that, with him, chasing their curiosity rather than their survival? Understandably so, obviously. But in a way, they're kindred spirits. The exhilaration of victory and all that comes with it is secondary only to intrigue: Octane towards the unknown and Caustic towards the known. 

He licks a canine as he presses the heel of his palm against his groin, rubbing it through his boxers, sweat beading on his brow. Caution isn't like him, and staring down into an abyss has only ever ended in free fall.

So, Octane sheds his inhibitions like a snake sheds skin, yanking down his underwear before kicking it off entirely, spread out naked on his bed. His eyes flutter closed as he rolls his hips upwards, thrusting up into the friction of his grip. A velvet voice echoes in his head, shame and eagerness coiling in his belly, and he wonders when he'll see him again at a time that-- fits. If they'll ever be on the same team, and how fucked up is it that he wants the former more than the latter? The desire to die melds with the desire to _please._ They are one and the same, aren't they? It's the only answer why a stroke of kindness had slipped into Caustic's cadence, satisfied by the sight of a man who had picked _his_ poison.

 _Ay, Dios Mío,_ he's half hard already. A bead of precome slides down the head of his cock, dripping down the rows of his piercings, the barbels cradling the underside of his cock from tip to base. It twitches in his grasp, already ready to _go_. In his fantasy, that withering gaze does not falter even as Octane drops to his knees, prosthetic legs splayed wide as he waits for the incoming experimental execution.

He doesn't get off on it, not really, not _that_ kind. Beat him, whip him, choke him out-- all of that is fine ( _excellente,_ even!), it's different. It's tame. What Octane craves now is far beyond the edge of acceptable, the kind that outside of the games would be unacceptable. But craving it isn't quite the same as _liking_ it. Recollecting the ways his body failed him-- one organ at a time-- has his belly roiling in nausea, phantom pain flickering to life. Now that he knows what it feels like for real to his kidneys fully fail, for his heart to stutter amidst excruciating pain, while being _looked at_ and _judged_...

Well. Not even that immense nausea is strong enough to deter him. Octane eagerly presses three fingers deep into his mouth to wet them, inelegant enough that they scrape against his teeth. His chipped one leaves an aching red line against his skin, not quite hard enough to draw blood. _Mierda._ The idea has him tempted, frozen in motion temporarily as he struggles to parse that he can actually try to _recreate_ part of what had been done to him. He twists his free hand into his hair, pulling on it sharply, forcing himself out of his temporary stupor.

Octane's cheeks burn as he deliberately drags his fingers _hard_ against the ragged edge of enamel, until it pierces his skin in an ugly line deeper than intended. The taste of blood fills his mouth and even though it's not quite enough as the real deal, it still kicks his arousal up a notch. Like a Pavlovian response, it makes his mouth water, pink saliva dripping down his chin and he fucks his mouth, gagging on his fingers even as his cock lays untouched. A strangled moan slips through his lips before he reaches back down to fist his length at a brutal speed.

The warring sensations of the stinging cut and the easy slide of his hand against his cock blows up in sparks behind his eyelids.

He wishes he was choking. He wishes his skin felt clammy and too tight, for his eyes to water-- for them to _bleed_ at the ducts. A hiccuped sob escapes him as he wonders if Caustic would even touch him again. Would he tip Octane's head back next time to closely observe how he twitches in response to toxin flooding his veins? Would he still want to see how it's killing him slowly, his experiment finding a sweet conclusion?

Octane releases the hold on his hair so he can bite at the back of his hand, using it to anchor himself to reality for just a moment, just long enough spread his legs wider so he can more easily up into his tight grasp. The wet, messy sounds of his jacking off fill the air. It's obscene, and all the more so when he wonders what Caustic would think of he saw him like this. Gagging for not even his cock, just his cool condescension and an imagined murder scene.

His muscles pull taught like a bowstring, chest heaving desperately as he wants more, and more, _and more_.

It could be so much _better._ Octane's head lolls back until the column of his throat is exposed, quickly working as his breathing grows shallow, His hand is slick with saliva and blood and precome, and in a moment of delirious arousal he wishes he had a knife within reach, to slit his wrist to bleed messily all over himself, to emulate the way he'd vomited blood from dying lungs. He longs to be out in the open, with a gun deliberately tucked away, a willing sacrificial lamb pushing itself into the jaws of the wolf. 

He swallows hoarsely and flings a hand over to his end table, groping around for a stim as orgasm looms over his head like waves suspended in time. Octane needs to find release more desperately than he needs air, but he can't do it alone: it's hard, now, to plummet into bliss without it. Octane's body is too used to the heady drug he takes over and over and over again, his brain chemicals a veritable soup. Maybe that's why he likes this so much, because his head scrambled like an egg. 

He knows that isn't true, though. Being a junkie is all he knows. All he _is_. This is just a new flavor, and right now, he's more than fine with that, because it feels fucking _amazing_. Octane squeezes the base of his cock and envisions Caustic's derisive sneer at his _eagerness_. Whimpering a slew of desperate swears, his fingers finally curl around a green vial, yanking it free from the leather prison of his armband.

His filter is somewhere under his bed, but his body will be fine without it for now. It's not a match, he won't be popping one half a dozen times per minute, and he _needs this_. 

_There_. In it goes, pressed directly into his chest, and there's soft click indicating that it's sealed it into place. The bubbling serum infuses with his blood in an instant, the heady high already rushing to his head. Green lines spread throughout Octane's entire body from the epicenter of its invasion, all of his senses sharpening to a knife's point. It ripples up his face and illuminates his face, eyes and all. It soars down rest of his body, the delicate web of lines even decorating his dick.

His skin prickles, raised into goosebumps as he pulls himself in short, jerking strokes, toes curling as he thrashes in his bed, a thin sheen of sweat covering his body. His deluded fantasy evolves further as he sees Caustic's heavy boot come down against his groin. It applies cruel, unyielding pressure against his arousal even as blood fills Octane's lungs all over again, drowning him in it as sure as if he pushed Octane's head underwater. 

A high, keening whine escapes him, head turned into his own shoulder as the overwhelming sense of being completely and utterly _degraded_ in his dying throes overtakes him. He seems brown eyes, watching with interest only as he finally, _finally_ , dies. 

Orgasm hits him like a hurricane, the fever pitch of his desperation exploding beneath his ribs. His muscles quiver from the exertion, and a long, animalistic sound spills from his mouth, drawn out until it ends in choked off sobs. His cock is sore, chafed red and aching as it spurts come against his belly, his chest. Two, three, _four_ , it keeps _going_ , a flame roaring into a bonfire before it's snuffed out. As it fades, so too does the frenetic, single-minded and obsessive thoughts of surrendering himself to Caustic and his poison.

He blinks rapidly, wiping away unshed tears from watering eyes. He collapses back against his sheets in a heap of boneless limbs, the lines of neon green fading from his veins. Blearily, Octane runs his fingers through his come and licks the salty mess off his fingers, wiping drool away from his chin. The rest of it he just cleans off with a sheet, too fuzzy headed to do more than that. He really did that, huh? Followed his dick right into the abyss without much thought, learning a whole lot more about himself in the process.

" _Mierda_ , I need to do that again," he says to his empty room, grinning up at his ceiling. Already a foot is jiggling against his mussy sheets, and his mind is racing with possibilities. The more he thinks about how Caustic had reverently explained his missive, the more convinced Octane is that he can get him to do it again. Now he knows what to look for, what angle to press to try and escalate their next encounter. Maybe the guy has it right idea after all, because now Octane is considering giving up his _own_ opportunity to win in favor of his _own_ little experiment.

He pushes himself out of bed, a wide grin painted across his face. It's the dawn of a new day, and it's already off to an _awesome_ start. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yes Octane has a jacob's ladder. I also chose to give Octane a number of scars that I associate with his danger-seeking days, before he wore a full mask and goggles. He could certainly have afforded to fix them if he wanted to, and probably has had a few done before he realized that he likes the evidence too much to change them.


	3. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out with his squad, Octane takes something for granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is a bit of a bridging chapter! Octane's a Legend first and foremost, some things just make him question it a little.
> 
> Some warning for some hand-gore.

Turns out, being horny takes a back-burner when faced with riotous success. Octane doesn't have time to breathe-- let alone chase his new bliss-- because the following days pass in an absolute _blur_ because his squad is on _fire_.

He runs with Lifeline and Wattson, and _ay, Dios **Mío**_ he has a hard time keeping up with them in every way except raw speed. Wattson's familiarity with every nook and cranny of King's Canyon is nutty, and his best bud forever (and ever) Ajay always has a drone ready to top him off after any nasty engagements. Sure, it also comes with ribbing that he deserves, but hey, he _did_ owe her. Not his real life but he _does_ owe her his real limbs. She's allowed to boss him around a little enough that he'll listen. Sometimes. Maybe. Probably!

Okay, fine. So they have to bribe him to behave, but who doesn't? It's totally worth it, too: Octane gets first pick on _anything_ that comes down in a care package, be it one of Lifeline's or one called down from on high. Almost anything anyway. There was a firm _no krabers_ rule in the squad, because only Wattson has both the aim and the patience for that kind of gun. Seeing them in a care package makes him pout, mournfully calling it out on the comms before _swearing_ that could do a sweet trickshot off his jump pad if they just let him _try_.

("I _seen_ you try," Lifeline says, firmly taking the gun out of his grasp to pass it to their new friend. "You best stick to spray and pray!")

It takes him four solid days to realize that Lifeline had only acquiesced because she'd realized that a speed demon running around cackling at the top of his lungs makes for very, very good bait. Octane leans into it joyfully: flinging himself at the siren song of loot piñatas that everyone else _also_ wants to crack open is the most fucking action he gets during their games. 

It's working for them, at least, bumping them up in the rankings higher and higher as they're hot on the heels of a nice and sexy five win streak

It should be everything he wants, everything he _lives_ for-- and it is, to a point. It would have even been perfect last week. 

But now?

Now it kind of rings hollow, because despite their kill counts racking up, the way they play is antithetical to Octane's _everything_. They bunker up at every opportunity, playing it cautious and safe so often that once or twice he's just fired his gun into the air get a little _attention_ , to much chagrin. The whole affair has Octane restless in his bones, and he's so sure that every atom in his entire body is going to vibrate out of existence, sending him flying in a thousand directions. He finds himself sadly gazing at more and more skirmishes from afar, going _god, I wish that were me_.

This is one of those times.

Octane woefully swings his legs off the top of thunderdome's highest cage, staring with naked longing at the artillery and carnage going on down by skulltown and the leviathan bones. The echo of a seemingly endless barrage and arc stars only come to a slowdown when six squads turn to five. 

God, he's going to fucking _explode_. He jiggles his hemlok on his knee, chewing at the inside of his cheeks, a coiled spring under maximum pressure. Up here he's a penned animal, ready to slide out of the cage and make a mad dash for the tunes if he weren't hamstrung by things like expectations of _responsibility_ and _patience_. 

He's up on his feet before he's aware of it, whirling around to clutch both of his hands together to beg in utter supplication. " _Please_!" he cries, loud enough to lightly echo off the canyon walls, and doesn't care that Wattson is shushing him. "Take pity _amigas_ , just let me take a few pot shots! A few! Please! I'm so _bored!_ "

Lifeline is unimpressed by the outburst. She looks out at the teams topping themselves off behind cover before throwing Octane a searching look, inspecting him. _It doesn't have the same weight as Caustic's_ , his gut informs him, like he didn't already know that. Not that he _wanted_ Ajay's look to have that kind of weight on him-- it wasn't her style. It'd be kind of scary if it was. She throws Wattson a quirked brow in silent inquiry, who delicately shrugs. 

" _Pleaseeee_ ," he says again, hoping that his whole sad puppy dog routine is going to work, despite his mask and goggles. 

Finally, Lifeline sighs, waving a hand at him with the go ahead. "You better hope Wraith's not there," she warns, but Octane is already happily pulling out his kitted out longbow, all angst forgotten. "She catch you looking again, and _boom boom._ Lights out for you."

" _Mira_ ," he gasps, clutching the gun to his breast, scandalized. "It's not my fault she _cheats!"_

Lifeline pointedly rifles through her bag enough for Octane to see the tell-tale purple of a phoenix kit, an answer enough on its own. Fair enough. He doesn't exactly have the greatest track record while they do their bunkerering down shit. He gets stuck watching too long, leg jiggling as he gets absorbed in the action, and then _bam_.

He's almost been offed a few times this match already thanks to Wraith's _own_ longbow. 

It doesn't get him down, because _finally_ he gets to do _something_ , even if it's not dashing headfirst into the action like he so badly wants to do. Giggling to himself in excitement, he pulls the gun up and holds it steady, zooming in on the final squad left standing on the bones, ducked behind the vertebrae. A fresh final artillery strike dumps itself down on the stragglers below, and they're officially down to four squads. Two of them are in sight, dancing around up there like little _cucarachas_ when the gunfire resumes.

Behind him, Wattson's gently nudges his arm to guide him to a surer shot, something she's been doing all week. Octane holds his breath, lining the reticle up in accordance to the bullet drop with her help.

He's so close, he's almost got a clear shot, and-- "Now," Wattson says, decisive, and Octane pulls the trigger. Wistfully, he watches through his scope as the bullet makes a nice hole in Caustic's skull in a glorious spray of red and white and _red_. His death box comically slides off of its perch, and he snickers.

"Sorry, _amigo."_ The rest of what is presumably his team isn't far behind him, thanks to a cheery Pathfinder and co sliding up a zipline, shotguns out and ready to rumble.

Octane offer their boxes a mock salute as four turns into three. The ring is set to close in fast, and it's in their favor. It always is. Wattson gently pats him on the shoulder in congratulations before tugging him behind a rusted metal wall with a touch more sturdy than you might expect.

"Good shot," she says, politely not taking her credit where credit was due. "We might make a sniper of you yet. But you should take a little cover now, _oui_? One team knows where we are, and now the other might have seen us, too." 

Octane leans back against it dramatically, hugging his rifle like a teddy bear. "Lighten uppp," he whines, "I just wanted to have some _fun_. I've been waiting all day!"

A respawn beacon lights up to their east, a fresh body dropping down just in time. It's not something to worry about, really. The ring is set to close here in a second, and it's a _spicy_ one. While they'll have a few seconds to raid some boxes, but they're going to have to hustle, and it'll put them in a bad position.

"Patience is a virtue, you know," Wattson laughs, unaffected by Octane's complaining with the seasoned ease that comes from playing kindergarten teacher to a grown man. "It could do you some good, _non_? They are on their way, you will have to show some spark soon enough." 

Lifeline ignores them both, her eyes on the west horizon. She slaps a hand over his masked mouth, jerking her head at the jump tower.

"Squad goin up that balloon, eyes out for em." An eagerness creeps into her voice, one that doesn't just come with the anticipation of a win. She'd confessed yesterday that Bangalore agreed to some one on one training if Ajay manages gets this last win in the bag. She pulls out her devotion, turbocharged and ready to go. "I got your back. Don't let me down."

Octane grins behind his mask, throwing the horns and dancing in a little circle of excitement. The searing, crackling orange of the ring edges ever closer, and Wattson tracks the trajectory of their company with the cool calculation that overtook her in these moments, her warm eyes gone still as she assesses risk and chooses to dismantle it.

The kraber pops and down goes Pathfinder, shot right out of the air, his death box instantly plummeting to the ground. Bloodhound and Mirage land up top, but Octane's ready for them. With a jump pad down, he's able to soar clean over their head and spray them with a burst of bullets that pop a blue shield. From below, Lifeline flings up an arc star through the cage's bars, buying time to scramble up to the top of the cage herself, a vibrant grin paint her face. She blows a kiss to the cameras before the whine of her devotion spinning up immediately goes toe to toe against Mirage's shotty. 

It doesn't fare well.

"She shot me!" Mirage gurgles indignantly, crawling towards the edge of the cage's roof to keep himself from being straight up eliminated. 

"You shoulda been better!" is her gleeful retort before they're interrupted by a startled cry from below. Unfortunately for them, Bloodhound had decided to dedicated themself to even out the odds. The feral snarl does _not_ mean anything good; they bypass her fences and spray her down with an alternator's disruptor rounds. It chews through her shields like a dog does a bully stick, and even though her corpse dissipates, Octane feels so _alive_.

Being down one almost makes this fair. He digs for a frag and plinks it through the bars so it lands at the hunter's feet, and together he and Lifeline put roasted raven on the menu.

Through all this, though, he and Lifeline have made a singular, grievous error.

The last squad was still out there, and they'd lost track of them. The second they hear the telltale hiss of a zipline, Octane puts two and two together and swears at the top of his lungs, pulling away from Lifeline's healing drone to dive for cover _outside_ of the cage, because _oh no_.

The metallic ring of a gas trap landing and the hiss of its pop rings out, and holy shit there's a lurch in his chest. He closes his eyes, just for a second, and fights against the hook between his ribs that say _go get into it_. He doesn't have time for this, right now, he doesn't have _time_ to talk himself out of his obsessive hot-for-baddie-daddy, but that sort of thing doesn't exactly evacuate the premises all on its own. This is the first time since _then_ that they've even been within ten feet of each other, and he really, really, really needs to get this under control.

Lifeline's devotion goes still, and there's a wingman out but he's not sure if it's hers or someone else's. There's only an extra two sets of footsteps, and it has to be Wraith up there with them in addition to Caustic. Fuck. He'd misjudged which squad Caustic was on and it dawns on him that it's because Wraith just happened to take someone out the second that Octane had.

 _Mierda_. Had she done that on purpose? Does her freaky deaky cheaty voice let her do that? He wants to yeet her out of Solace's orbit, because the pulse in his ears just won't slow. He can't do this right now, not with his camera stream on, not without being sequestered away and tucked into a corner that no cameras touched.

 _Like before_ , his gut helpfully offers, and he knows. He knows! He has wet dreams about it, okay, he doesn't need any _help remembering_.

It's his indignant fury with himself that he pulls his scope off his sniper rifle, whirling back in to the cage as soon as its safe, once the gas dissipates into a fine film of yellow and green. When he slides in, it's to drive-by pop Wraith in the skull with his longbow, because turnabout is fair play, and also because it's an _excellent_ stand in for a shotgun.

And then it's two.

Octane freezes, every bit a cornered animal, ears still roaring. He doesn't let himself focus on the nox grenade at his hip, doesn't let himself look into a gaze that will find him wanting in a way that will have Octane looking inappropriate on camera. It only lasts a microsecond, a blip in the radar as Caustic fires a shot into Octane's right hand, twin starbursts of pain flickering behind his eyes as bones splinter and flesh tears. Several bones fragment in ways that Octane is intimately familiar with, and his pinky finger is straight up gone. He hadn't had time to pop a shield cell so it is _horrible._

There's a soft huff of approval from behind Caustic's mask and _oh_ , that's not fair how that makes Octane's heart flip in ways that should not be flopping. This isn't like before! This isn't _private._ It's _business_ , just another death, with hardly any time for the in between. 

Octane's not going to go out without swinging. A distraction for him is just a split second for anyone else, and like fuck he's ending their streak over a little bit of extremity loss. The pain heightens his senses, sharpening everything into crystal clarity. It's not obscured by choking smoke, this time. 

From behind his mask, Caustic looks at him from head to toe, down where Octane is collapsed against the metal floor, surrounded by bits of bone and blood. "You lose," he says, "as the strong will filter out--"

Held clumsy in his left hand, lamenting the fact that he's not yet managed to become ambidextrous, Octane fires. The burst of bullets from his hemlok go into Caustic's _fucking_ knees. It fills his chest with incoherent joy to see the man stutter in place, to see him brought low, tumbling off his self-professed pedestal up close and _personal_. His wingman skitters away from him, flying across the cage as Octane yanks his gun up again, head tilting with a burst of laughter. He proceeds to mow Caustic down from thigh to ankle, until the damage is done enough in something poetic and wonderful and hilarious.

"Don't worry," he leers, reaching out to pat Caustic's shoulder with a hand that's more bone and nerve than skin, another laugh burbling up in his throat. "I've got a prosthetics guy!"

All of the agony in the world is worth this blood soaking through his glove, soaking through Caustic's gear. It's intimate in a way he gets to control, intimate in a way he can exploit later to prove that he's worth _looking at_ , even with eyes of disbelieving derision. Caustic has to look at him, now, furious behind his mask, his cool lost in the face of defeat. 

The hemlok presses itself against the underside of Caustic's bearded chin, caressing the heated muzzle against his skin like a lover's might, and when Octane pulls the trigger, the glory of **_YOU ARE THE CHAMPION_** pales in comparison to the sweet taste of Caustic's resentful fury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to showcase that they're both creepy! I promise Octane isn't full edge, he just uh, hyperfixates. He has a PLAN. It's a bad plan. But it's a plan!
> 
> Some Caustic creepy will be next, I promise.


	4. Preparation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octane gets ready.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this chapter at the same time as the next one, since it has the good stuff and I didn't want to leave you guys hanging again.
> 
> \--
> 
> I've updated the end notes to link to more of my lore headcanons. Free to check them out if you'd like to know more about what powers this verse, the Compound one is particularly relevant to this chapter's contents. 
> 
> I've also done a quick editing pass on prior chapters for grammar/typos/formatting, nothing major.

Winners get popped into a new body sooner rather than later, so Octane doesn't even have to wait till evening to get reacquainted with all of his fingers. In the sterile regeneration room, Lifeline and Wattson are born anew beside him, and together they bask in the subdued glory of their victory. There will be time, later, for a full blown celebration, but right now everyone else is still _technically_ dead. Well, besides the staff, at any rate.

With their five win streak done and in the bag, he cuts himself loose from the promise of good behavior. Both of them are great-- _fantastico_ , even!-- but Octane will take losing in style over winning deprived of action. Even the _idea_ of taking on another game by hiding up in the nose-blood section has him ready to crawl into a flyer cage for a kind and brutal death. Neither Ajay nor Natalie take it personally: no squad stays static for long. It's best to keep your friends close and your enemies closer, because no one is above getting an edge on the competition by learning each other's strats.

So, they hug it out.

Wattson promises him that she's ec _static_ to face off against him in the arena, Lifeline promises him that he's not going to find better support than with her, and _Octane_ doesn't tell them that he has no intention of showing up in Solace City tonight for the usual partying.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

His room is as messy as it was this morning, a whirlwind of clothes and drugs and recording equipment and empty boxes of what were once leftovers. He chews on the inside of his cheek, collapsing in a heap of limbs both flesh and metal onto his couch, absentmindedly kicking off unfolded laundry as he plots out his ill-advised plan. 

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Everyone might be dead right now, but it won't stay that way for long. The game masters are out in storm, combing the perimeters of the arena for fallen banners, ready to stick old chips in new flesh. Legends need to be back up and running by dinnertime today because the maintenance period starts tomorrow. During it, King's Canyon is closed off, the streams go dark, the bloodshed takes a breather and all the participants finally get a little time to themselves.

The Syndicate tries to sell it like it's all in the Legends' favor, but Octane doesn't buy it. The Apex Games are first and foremost entertainment to be capitalized on, and that means a little _artificial scarcity_ is good. You gotta keep the masses hungry for a show-- he'd know!

He guess that the reasoning doesn't really matter, though, so long as they keep to their word. It's easy to get a little stir crazy when the games run five days on and two days off and you're bound to the compound's premises. There's no leaving while the games are in session, and for the people who had lives on the planet before the games-- and those who retain them _still_ \-- the knowledge that Solace City is only an hour away by shuttle is more infuriating than it is comforting.

The city air tastes like freedom and ozone, and Legends will be flocking to it as soon as the lockdown lifts. Whether it's to enjoy the nightlife, get some fresh air, or to get away from the things that are explicitly and _specifically_ trying to kill you, Solace City has it all, baby. Every participant of the games worth a damn is a local legend-- no pun intended-- and it opens up every avenue except anonymity.

People from all walks of life know your name, your face, your favorite color and what you look like with your body turned inside out. They want your signature, your selfie, and all of the pieces of yourself that you're willing to give away to the public eye. 

And it. is. _Awesome_.

Octane's no stranger to fame but it never gets old. It's why his absence tonight is going to be a bit of an anomaly, but he doesn't care. He's had plenty of time to swan dive into the hotspots, especially the bar Mirage works at. 

Not that the added popularity scores him any ladies, a fact that Octane is all too happy to remind him of. ("Ouch, _amigo_ , that looked like it hurt! You want some company while you cry into your tequila? No? Too bad!") One of these days, that guy is going to finally notice how much Bloodhound has been pining over him, but the last time Octane tried to offer his assistance it had earned him a quick and easy trip to being an offering to the Allfather. That's enough of a hint, even for him.

His stomach flips as he thinks about who he'd rather be an offering to. His mouth goes dry. But Octane has proven himself to be more lion than lamb, a fact that he hopes he can use as a bargaining chip in Caustic's presence.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

He's got a few hours yet, and that means time to work out all of his frenetic energy. He slips to the edge of the campus, out where the sky is blue and it almost smells like nature. It's been a long week, and he's determined to make his body-- _his blood_ \-- feel like his own again, idiosyncrasies and all. He works his heart and filter hard, popping stim after stim as he races around and around and around. One kilometer, two, five, ten. He stretches out clone-stiff muscles until they burn bright and warm and _real_. Sweat pours from his body like rain sluicing off of stone. The only thing that stops him is a hunger grown ravenous.

When he flops back onto the grass to stare right into the sun, his mind is empty and free. 

Groaning, he crawls back onto his feet, rubbing at his prosthetics to scrub off some of the accumulated muck and grime. He's a mess and doesn't mind it, trudging back to find the gym's communal showers. It's a lengthy affair, stripping down. It never stops being a pain to take pants off with the prosthetics on, and it's weighing that versus the ordeal of popping them off and enduring the re-calibration after he's done. He's too impatient for either, really, but he's definitely taken showers with all of his clothes _on_ and _mierda_ , that's the worst option of them all. 

He settles on getting clean _before_ he changes into fresh clothes in his room, tracking in significantly less dirt and more in the process. When it's all said and done, afternoon has bled into evening, and out the window Octane sees shuttles zip across a darkening sky.

It's almost time.

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Octane doesn't need to check the flight logs to know that Caustic stayed behind. Given his habits, he's absolutely lurking below in his labs, like some kind of very takes himself seriously kind of villain in a lair, a fact that Octane had noticed even before the adrenaline junkies in his head and dick had sprung to life.

After all, he's a thorn in everyone's side, all the time, _everywhere_. Octane chats up anyone in the mess hall, challenges everyone to drinking games in the rec room, begs and cajoles other legends to be guest stars on his daytime streams with a string of _please, please, por favor, please_! He even bounces around like free target practice for Bangalore in the range, taking full advantage of the fact that the Regeneration and Digitization contract covers the campus and not just the arena. He does it all! He _sees_ it all! 

But... not Caustic.

That guy makes a beeline from quarters to mess hall to labs, rarely showing his face outside of them unless it's time for the games. That gravely, wheezing voice from behind a mask turns all invitations and conversations down, (Save Wattson who can coax him into brief discussions. It makes envy lick up his insides, coating it in flames.) and Octane tunes into it _all_ , like a radio programmed just to listen for Caustic's voice and Caustic's voice alone.

To listen for the way he declines people like they're not worth _acknowledging_ , let alone his undivided attention. To listen for the way he cloaks himself in his reputation, unchallenged.

Octane's skin itches, determined to prove that he can be interesting, useful data if it (hah) kills him. 

Tick, tock. Tick, tock.

Time to interfere with Caustic's regularly scheduled showtime.

He grins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew! I lost chunks of this chapter not once, not twice, but three times! (Thus is the pain of writing straight into the draft window, lemme tell ya.) Thanks for bearing with me as the worldbuilding happens.


	5. Bargain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octane pushes his luck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could this be? RECIPROCATION?
> 
> \--
> 
> Thanks for your patience from the last chapter!

Octane skitters into the mess hall, metal scraping against concrete in the process. Not everyone was gone, of course: some of the offlanders liked to stay on the compound in particular, and there were enough of them to make his arrival completely and utterly bland. It'd be more suspicious, honestly, if he'd tried to sneak in, it would have been a thousand times more suspicious.

He heads towards the counter to get a snack he has no intention of eating, half an eye on one hulking scientist eating alone, given a notably large berth visible even in the dwindling number of Legends present. _Ay, Dios mío,_ it takes every fiber in Octane's being to resist the urge to just hop up on the edge of his table and offering a _wasssuppp_ and a thumbs up. Instead, he sprawls at a table all his own, picking at his fresh fruit half-heartedly, keeping Caustic in his peripheral vision.

When the guy finally stands, Octane counts a whole half a minute to himself before giving up and chasing after him. He's beyond ready to delve into the laboratories in the basement, to offer himself up like a feast on a platter. He wants to slide into the jaws of a shark and welcome the bite, and it's so close he can taste it. 

Octane takes the stairs two at a time, prosthetics echoing against the linoleum. The fluorescent lights of the hallway cast everything into stark contrast, and honestly he's kind of incredulous that the place is so _big_. The Syndicate has really expanded in the last few years, he guesses. Caustic turns a corner around one of the corridors in the distance, and he nearly trips himself in the hurry to power walk behind him. 

There's so many _rooms_. Pathfinder's set up shop in one as a makeshift machinist area, and not far from him is one Wattson commandeered once she graduated to being a Legend herself. Lifeline even has a little first-aid room that she staffs when she pleases.

Caustic's heavy footsteps grow faint enough that Octane takes notice. He'd gotten so busy reading the names on the doors he passed that he's lost track of his mark. 

" _Mierda,_ " he hisses, jogging ahead, looking around wildly. It has to be around here somewhere, right? (Briefly, Octane entertains the notion that he's got a hidden door leading down to a secret cave, but waves it away. Caustic _wishes_.) How does he stand making this trek every day anyway, huh? It's so far away from everyone else!

Maybe he just spends forever down here instead, like a bear or something, hibernating with like. Beakers and test tubes, tuning his masterpiece, his magnum opus of destruction in ways he can't even guess at. Octane doesn't even know much about how they keep his ticker ticking and his legs running, let alone chemistry!

He idly scratches at his chin as he comes to a dead end, eyes roving over the rows of doors. Honestly, he's probably going to need help getting out of here, if he manages it alive. Maybe he won't, and maybe that's hoping for too much, too soon.

Either way, Caustic is _definitely_ not going to be happy to see him, and the kind of thrill that is indescribable, a feedback loop of _sí, sí, sí_! It feels like... like slipping into the family garage to take a very, _very_ nice hover-bike out for a joyride before crashing it spectacularly off a cliff. It feels like the knowledge that he's about dive headfirst into something awful with the full awareness of how it might end.

He sighs fondly at the memory. One of his first major disasters, and he still has the road rash scars to prove it.   
  
_Ay, Dios **mío**_ , _finally_! He's finally found it. **_DR. CAUSTIC_** flickers across the holotag next to the door, letters bold like a brand. Against all odds the door is ajar, and Octane chooses to count as a blessing from the universe to appease his eternal curiosity and intrigue, and no _way_ is he squandering it. He slips inside with a giddy grin splitting his lips, ready to court disaster yet again. 

But there's no disaster to be found.

Instead, Octane finds a room that looks... pretty normal, honestly. There's an array of analog books scattered across its counters, and handwritten notes crammed overflowing in folders. There's the odd datapad, too, but it seems like Caustic has a fondness for doing stuff the old fashioned way. Machines of indeterminate origin inhabit the center islands, and there's a glass wall that partitions itself between the lab and what looks like some sort of testing chamber. There's a few empty cages in the corner, but no active fauna, which is... enough of a statement on its own.

The place looks lived in, but no one's home. 

Octane licks his teeth, the exhilaration finally burbling up to the surface in an explosive tangle of memories. 

Dread. Agony. Fluid in his lungs and tears in his eyes, synapses firing until his pain receptors blow out. He wants it again, and he thinks he has a chance. Dealing with him alone, unfettered by observations and expectations of victory means that he can make his case, with reason or otherwise. 

Footsteps approach, and Octane's breath quickens. He scrambles up onto a counter, sending folders sliding across its surface, papers falling free from their prison. He grabs a stack to rifle through, feeling very much like a feline raising its paw to knock an item off a shelf, an attempt to deliberately antagonize its owner.

Not too far from the truth, really.

The door opens and Octane feels his pulse rumble in his body like the tremors of an earthquake, but that just makes his smile more genuine. Caustic stands before him, clad in white and his half-mask, a cup of coffee of all things in one hand and a journal in the other. For a moment, they just stare at each other, frozen in time. 

" _Hola, amigo_!" he greets, too loud, breaking the silence with a wave, a paper on-- _hemodynamic data of a pulmonary edema of toxic origin--_ still clutched in his hand.

Caustic offers him silence and a cool gaze, and the door closes behind him with a click. The silence is very loud, and there is a tension in him, the slightest clench of his jaw beneath the mask that belies his temper.

"Ah," he finally says, setting his mug down, "you." The drag of his glare feels like pinpricks against Octane's skin, amplified when they flick downward to see the mess he's made. The faintest echo of an exasperated sound filters out through Caustic's mask.

It spurs Octane on.

"You remember me!" he cries, pointing at himself and pulling a face in the process. "Wasn't sure you would, since, no gear, yeah? But I guess you remember my voice! It _is_ a very good one, no one could blame you." 

The self-congratulatory words fall on deaf ears as Caustic's eyes slide over to the glass wall, calculating. Octane puts two and two together with a silent _oh._ The room there is... air tight. _Sealed_. A bead of sweat trickles down his neck, and his stomach churns. _Oh, please. Please, please, please_.

Caustic interrupts his thoughts with deliberate words, every syllable enunciated with great care. "I have no patience for those who do not know their place. I have no room for vermin." He raises a hand dismissively, the silver sheen of two prosthetic fingers visible as Caustic motions towards the door. "Begone."

He expects Octane to behave, but ha, tough titties. "Hmmm," he says, pretending to briefly consider it. Instead, his grin goes sly and leans back on one arm, laid out luxuriously. The only thing that gives him away is his metal heel tapping against the cabinets, a dead giveaway for the chaotic energy bouncing around inside of him. "Nope!" he crows, his smile broadening into something manic. "You forgot, huh? _Mira_ , I'm not afraid of you. You're gonna have throw me out yourself if you want me gone." His laugh echoes as Caustic grimaces in dissatisfaction, closing the distance between them with just a few strides.

"I advise that you take my warning seriously. You will not get another."

Even perched like he is, Caustic still looms over him with ease, and it makes Octane fidget. He's so _big_. Tall and broad in the shoulders, yes, and _sturdy_. Beneath his starched white labcoat is a barrel chest and a stomach soft with age and the nature of his lifelong profession. A few years in the game don't turn back the clock on a life, but it doesn't make him any less intimidating. He could still move Octane like a ragdoll, or smother him without blinking. 

Octane bites his lip, breath hitching in his chest.

 _Yeah_ , big is good.

"I understand," he says, and already he sounds a little breathless. "But I said what I said, _compadre_. What you gonna do about it?"

The bait is obvious, but it's bait nonetheless, and Caustic has no choice but to rise to it. He plucks the document from Octane's fingers, laying it down beside him with a gentle touch, pushing it safely out of reach. The calm before the storm. He stills, palm flat next to Octane's thigh. This close, he smells like chemicals, like antiseptic and green soap and a little bit of coffee.

"You display a truly underwhelming sense of self-preservation." 

" _Si_ ," he agrees, spreading his hands in concession with a shrug. "But you knew that already, huh?" 

Their eyes lock, and Caustic's brows-- somehow-- furrow further. There's less separating them now than ever before. No gear save Caustic's respirator, no weapons, no cameras. Only skin and cloth and metal. Octane's gaze travels down to the man's shoulder, where he'd clutched it once with a hand more bone than skin. Where his own blood had soaked through Caustic's gear. He wishes he could see it again, now, painted crimson against a white coat.

Like once upon a time, Caustic tips his head in curiosity, and Octane revels in the acknowledgement, no matter how minute. He feels naked, exposed. He wets his lips.

When Caustic next speaks, his tone is dry. "So I've surmised." The heat he radiates is scorching, or maybe that's just Octane dying from being inspected like a butterfly pinned to a board. No biggie. Definitely not.

"Listen--" he starts, ready to deliver his spiel, but his next inhale is cut short. Caustic's hand shoots out to grip him by the throat with a bruising hold, and boy if that isn't a kink in his plans. Without mercy, he yanks him down and off the counter, releasing him only to throw him against another counter with a grunt. Octane folds at the hip when he collides, head cracking against the metal. Black spots dance across his vision, the breath knocked out of him with a single toss.

Caustic wraps his fingers around Octane's throat from behind, yanking him back up hard enough to bend Octane's spine like a bow, and he can't help it. A whimper escapes him as he's marched to the door, his fingers scrabbling at the vice grip holding him aloft in automatic protest.

"The outcome to testing my patience is pain and pain alone," Caustic hisses, words hot against his ear. "It's a lesson you would do to remember."

 _Fuck_. He doesn't want to _go_. He doesn't want to learn the lesson, he wants anything but. Octane chokes himself on Caustic's grip as he twists enough to bring a metal knee up to his gut, hard enough that the man drops him. He skitters across the floor with a metallic ring, watching as Caustic recovers from a coughing fit, hand braced on a wall as he reorients himself. He's not a weak man, Octane can see that now for sure-- can _feel_ it, a phantom set of fingers writing invisible patterns on his skin-- but not a one of them is invincible.

He cackles on the ground, holding his belly as he laughs. "Gotcha good, huh!" 

Weariness has given away to icy cruelty, the kind of fury that blooms across the face. Caustic means _business_ , now, and uh-oh, that means he needs to get his ass up and ready for whatever is thrown at him next. Octane squirms out of reach as fast as possible, flipping onto his belly with every intent of clawing his way back up to standing. 

It doesn't work.

A heavy boot comes down on his back hard enough to make his elbows buckle, and for the second time in as many minutes his head connects with a hard surface, rattling his brain in its cage. The world swims around him in a nonstop spin, and all he knows is stars and the dull radiation of pain. 

"It's a pity that you insist on wasting my time," Caustic sneers, grinding his heel into the knobs of Octane's spine with a growl, "but far be it from me to squander resources." 

A bolt of terror at the words is the correct response, but Octane moans, even as blood trickles down his brow. He feels _awful_ as Caustic grabs him by a leg to drag him across the floor, slamming a button on the wall to open the sealed door to the glass room. He's _ruthless,_ and it's all he's been dreaming of. In his chest, Octane's eagerness thrums through him like a song approaching crescendo. The notes of it reverberate in a searing heat that touches every extremity as Caustic flings him inside.

He could have fought more. His legs are stronger than most men, designed to springboard against hard surfaces and come away flying from them--

But he didn't.

Octane pants, rolling over onto his back, stomach on fire from the harsh friction from the floor, and it's nothing compared to the way his head throbs. Above him, Caustic is perusing various canisters labeled with numbers and letters. 

"Those your nox grenades?" he wheezes, weakly propping himself up on one elbow, and can't bite back his interest, nor can he hide the evidence of it in his pants. He doesn't want to. He wants Caustic to _see_.

Caustic laughs, smooth and low, raising one particular grenade to the light, admiring it. His attention is absolute: all else is secondary to the experiment.

"Very astute," he starts, poised to begin what Octane is sure is a lengthy explanation of what exactly is in it, but stops short. Genuine confusion flickers across his face, and then he's breathing in sharp through his nose. 

Octane shrugs, the pink painted across the bridge of his nose intensifying. He doesn't know how to say it, that Caustic could excise anything he wanted from him without the need of a scalpel, and he'd invite the scalpel regardless. 

"I guess I'm just happy to see you?" he offers, biting his lip as he slides his hand down to cup himself, cock twitching in his grip. All he's wanted is this look, his desires coming to a head in a frighteningly still moment. The air is stale in here. Recycled. Gooseflesh raises itself under Caustic's watchful gaze. His stomach jumps against nothing.

Caustic averts his eyes, and Octane wishes he could read this expression, could understand it, hungry for it. Starving.

He drops to a crouch next to him, and a bare, warm hand tilts Octane's chin up with no tenderness. "If you think that you can barter your release with such a display, you are sorely mistaken." 

"I don't," he whispers, throat working hard, parched. He's going to die down here, and Caustic is going to observe every second of it, every agonizing moment of the seductive and captivating event that is suffering. He whimpers, looking up at him with pupils blown wide. "I don't uh, _mierda_ , Caustic, I don't _want_ it to. _Please_."

The scientist's hand lowers to splay itself along his already bruising neck, covering it with a hot, heavy weight. He taps his thumb against Octane's skin, and something _shifts._ He feels cracked apart at the crucible, eroded like water does old stone. Clarity rings out in the form of Caustic's smooth and malevolent laugh. He _understands_.

"Interesting," he breathes, and runs his hand down Octane's shivering body full of pain and potential, until it covers Octane's own desperate grip around his cock. "An _anomaly_. You sought out this conclusion?"

It's a question but it's also a statement, it's a question and so much more. Octane buries his head into his shoulder, bucking up his hips with a nod and a whine. The sounds of a wounded animal in a trap.

He still sounds like himself despite it when he pants: "Immortality's fun, but so is something new, you know?"

Octane lifts a hand and pulls himself up enough to press his forehead against Caustic's, breath hot against his skin, lips dragging against the seal of his mask. His hand covers Caustic's on the deadly nox grenade clutched tight in his palm, stroking his thumb over it so soft, so sweet. It is his death in half a kilogram or less. It is his craved and beautiful disaster, and his heart soars. "So, _amigo_. You gonna kill me or what?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes it could be. 
> 
> Sorry for the cliffhanger! Please do hit me up on tumblr if it suits your fancy, link is in the end note! <3


	6. Ascension

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You live, you die. You love it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEASON THREE TRAILER BROUGHT ME BACK TO LIFE THEY'RE NEEEIIGHHBBBBBBBORSSSS AND SQUADDD MATESSS HAHAHAHAHA
> 
> as a note-- the descriptions in this chapter get graphic with blood and paralysis!

The room is quiet, and still, and white.

The room is sealed. Air tight. 

The room will be his tomb, his sanctuary, his heaven divine, and holy fucking _shit_ he can't _wait_.

Octane chews at his lip in eager anticipation, pulling back to give Caustic a trademark moronic grin. His leg jitters in place, something channel the frenetic energy that's running laps inside his chest. 

Caustic doesn't answer, not immediately. Instead, he just... looks. It's a calculating gaze, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, like he's recalibrating, drawing up new calculations for his expectations and desires. He is a starship plotting a new path, setting course for a new destination, and given the way his pupils blow wide-- until they're inky oceans of black, black, black-- it's easy to figure out that he's taking them in a nosedive straight to hell.

In the limelight of Caustic's single-minded intensity, Octane gluts himself on it like a man starved. _Yes_ , his life and limbs and lungs are full of potential, and _yes_ it is about time that Caustic fucking realized it. Harnessed it. _Used it_.

Used _him_.

The silence spilled between them speaks a litany of endless possibilities, each one of them more wonderful and terrible than the last. It doesn't matter how frigid the testing chamber is; Octane's still overheated, venting steam and burning rubber as his heart revs in place. He's still so _hard_ , can feel how much of a sticky mess he's made of his pants under the large, warm hand that blankets it.

His pulse is beyond thunderous in his ears, a cacophony that almost drowns out how Caustic's breath has gone heavy beneath his respirator.

 _Almost,_ because the cruel grin that unfurls behind it is im-fucking- _possible_ to miss. It's the only warning he gets before Caustic's hand slams down until the heel of it crushes against Octane's cock like an unstoppable force hitting a _very_ sensitive object. He yelps at the top of his lungs, violently jerking as if electrocuted because _bitch he might as well be_. He falls back against the glass with a harsh thud, pressing back against it like it might save him, spare him, from the cruelty. Distantly, he's aware that he's vibrantly swearing in not one but _two_ different languages, his voice high and reedy.

The pressure is brutal, unrelenting. Caustic actually grabs onto his hip to hold him _still_ , so that he can't escape from the pain, so that he can't catch his _breath._

Amidst the delirium that accompanies inescapable agony comes the question of if this is going to _bruise his fucking dick_. The thought of it forces a gurgle of something not-quite-pain and not-quite-pleasure out of his throat, wrenched free by the electric realization of how much Caustic has already marked him. Injuries have been written into his skin: bruises that ring his throat in fingerprints, the sore spots from being thrown around against counters, and the throbbing ache of his skull. 

He wants more. He wants _all_ of it, he--

He whites out. 

The desires inside him bend and twist into an ouroboros: for all that he is desperate to tear himself away from the pain there is an equally desperate need to chase the horrible bliss, and they meld together in incoherent and oscillating thoughts until they are truly inextricable.

Handling Caustic is like knowingly sticking your hand onto a hot stove with the expectation and understanding that it's going to burn, that it's going to hurt. 

Other people might treat such a thing delicately, but not Octane.

He wants to hold it there. 

Hey, a sense of self preservation is superfluous to a good time,right? He'd tell that to anyone on any day of the week, because having 'a sense of self preservation' has never _once_ given him anything that he wants, that he _craves_ , and this _certainly_ isn't going to be an exception to the rule.

"Patience," Caustic finally muses, unaware and uncaring of Octane's internal struggle, "is not merely a _virtue_ , but a _prerequisite_ for my participation." He pulls his hand off without warning, letting Octane writhe with the loss of friction, with the rippling aftershocks that comes when pain abruptly cease. "Do you understand?"

It's a command as much as it is a question, because _of course it is_. Octane stares blearily up at him, struggling to string words together when his mouth is so dry and his brain is cooking in his skull.

Octane's answer happens by the way of his hips stuttering forward automatically, heaving in little hiccups as he blinks back the tears at the corners of his eyes. His erection hasn't flagged in the slightest, but Caustic is far from impressed. When he stands, the sharp outline of his silhouette paints itself against the linoleum floor that lies between them. "When you are given a query," he sighs wearily, shaking out his hand in preparation, "You are to respond. Now, d _o you understand?"_

This time, the question is accompanied by the thunderous _crack_ of a backhand delivered with full force. Octane's head whips to the side, his skull slamming back into the glass _again_ with a hard smack. Fireworks blow up behind his eyelids in full technicolor, and fuck if _another_ broken, broken moan doesn't slip out. Octane knows he has to pull himself together, to untie his tongue long enough to say something, _anything_.

"Uh," he croaks, scrubbing at his eyes with one hand, wincing as he accidentally skims over tender skin, " _Ssssssí_?" Octane squints, genuinely not sure what _patience_ means in this context. Caustic's words usually lean dramatic rather than detailed-- of which there are currently scant few-- but really, he needs to be more specific. He wants to cooperate-- he really, really does-- but warnings are suggestions and rules are loose guidelines, so really, Caustic needs to be fucking specific.

So, Octane raises one metaphorical hand and slams it back on the stove with a snicker. "Virtues are _def_ overrated, _amigo_."

"I see," Caustic says, raising one boot to lay it heavy against Octane's groin, not yet applying force. It rests there, stationary, saying a thousand things without a single word uttered. Octane tries very, very hard not to rub up against it like a cat in heat and _mostly_ succeeds.

Honestly, he's a little surprised that Caustic hasn't called him a slut yet, but maybe that's not his brand. Maybe he'd use harlot instead, or something. 

"I suppose are correct by technicality, but your answer is in bad faith."

On autopilot, Octane his mouth to say something smart-- well, okay, maybe not smart, but _something_ \-- but he's cut off at the pass by tutting and steadily applied pressure because _Octane just_ _doesn't learn_.

His jaw clicks shut so violently he bites his tongue, eyes falling closed as he shudders from head to toe. He runs his fingers feather-light against his face, tracing the imprint of Caustic's hand instead of mouthing off. Lets himself feel out the two warm spots that sting more than the others. The metal prosthetics hit _hard_ , harder than flesh, and he gulps, wondering what else those fingers could do to him.

Where else they could get into, and honestly, his ass is the furthest thing from Octane's mind. So is his mouth. (No guts no glory, right?)

"Patience means you accept what I _give_ , when I give it. Patience means _enduring_ until I say you may expire." Caustic's voice is a rumble that resonates with Octane on several different planes of existence.

It all seems so _simple_ when he says it that way. What was all that pretense for? 

"Yo, you should have just said that!" Octane crows, giving the guy two enthusiastic thumbs up. Joy rolls around in his chest like an excited dog, and his smile goes goofy because of it, easy. "I got you, _compadre_. _Easy_ deal. Consider that contract signed!" Honestly, drawing that out had been straight up unnecessary, right? Octane had already pledged himself, had made himself into a platter on an all you can eat buffet table.

But then, it dawns on him that maybe he'd just been toying with his food. Octane usually needed to be put in his place by _someone_ , it was like, his default state of existence. The doc wouldn't be the first, but he's definitely welcome to do it, and then _keep_ doing. (Again, and again, and--)

Seemingly satisfied, Caustic withdraws his threat to leave Octane be, striding over to the cabinet of murder-goodies where his nox grenades were. For a minute, he peruses them like a sommelier does a wine rack, bare fingers trailing over them until he finds one he likes. 

"You will be held to those standards," he warns, replacing the old canister to withdraw the new, holding it up to the light to double check its label. "You'd _something new_ would be fun, I suppose that is an accurate descriptor of the... _circumstances._ Your request certainly changes the parameters of our interactions."

Octane has to giggle at that, jiggling his foot impatiently. "What, not many people begging for you to kill them at your feet, _amigo_?" he asks, smiling wider. _Wilder_.

"Quite the contrary. They often do, in their dying throes. Of their own _volition_ , however?" Caustic tilts his head, gazing at Octane out of the sides of his eyes, where it's easy to see his dark amusement. "There is a first time for everything, I suppose."

 _Mierda_. Octane's mind is def going to latch onto those words and hold onto them for dear life so that he can revisit them on repeat. Arousal buzzes in his veins on a near palpable level, and all he wants to do-- all he's _wanted_ to do-- is fish his dick out and finish himself off in a hurry. He knows for a fact that he could go a second time, easy! Maybe even a third! The need for relief is fucking immense and getting to be unreasonable, and the recognition that he gets to be Caustic's _first something_ is headier than slamming a stim into a vein. He's a revving vehicle waiting for the flag to _go, go, go,_ and his metaphorical tires are squealing on the metaphorical asphalt.

His _not so metaphorical_ boner is going to be the death of him.

"Oh," Octane whines, and somehow there's enough blood in his body to flush his cheeks further. Caustic seems to finally take pity on him, because he's finally waving a hand in his general direction dismissively.

"Do what you must to ease yourself, but do _not_ finish." Caustic presses his thumb against the door's lock, stepping through it as it parts without a spared backwards glance. "I will leave you in here to starve, which would ruin a truly intriguing experiment for us both."

The chamber seals itself again after that.

With a sharp exhale, Octane sits up to shake his head out and run a hand through his sweat-slick hair, what little of it there is along the top. This is probably the first time he's been able to just _breathe_ since Caustic had discovered him being a little shit rifling through his labs, and the gravitas of his situation sinks in. Octane tries to peek at what Caustic is off doing through the glass, but no dice. All he can tell is that a light is on out of sight, likely a supply closet.

Likely getting into the rest of his suit, and that's-- wow, yeah, _Ay, Dios **mío**_ he needed to get out of his fucking pants yesterday. In a flurry of tangled fabric and metal he shimmies out of his pants, kicking to get them off entirely. It leaves him bare from the waist down, shows the way his thighs are cut short by seams of scar tissue before his fleshy legs end and artificial ones begin. 

After a moment of further deliberation, Octane shrugs and tugs his shirt off too. Might as well. 

He rearranges himself, settling onto his knees with the scrape of metal on metal, lets them spread like he wants them to. He's in way over his head, but it's comforting rather than alarming.

Octane's cock bobs, finally freed from its confines. Goose-flesh forms on his arms, but not even the cold air in the test chamber can kill his boner. Not when what awaits him is so _close_.

He trails his fingers up his length from root to tip, dragging them lightly over the bars of his piercings. His cock is, in fact, _not_ bruised, but _mierda_ it is _tender_. He rubs the pad of his thumb up each barbel, row after row until he can caress the underside of his head, teasing it slowly. He's so _slick,_ precome dribbling a little onto the floor as it slides down his balls. 

Caustic had warned him not to "finish", but it's _really hard_ to resist the urge to finally fuck into his fist when given the opportunity. He usually likes it too tight and too fast in a way that's almost Pavlovian because he's always been in a hurry-- but right now, Octane takes it _slow_. Licks at his palm even though he really doesn't need it, thrusts up into his loose hold. The drag of his piercings against the webbing of his thumb and forefinger gives just enough friction that it's little pinpricks of extra pleasure.

It's agonizing, but he absolutely _cannot_ blow before Caustic returns. His chest flutters as he sucks in uneven breaths, head falling forwards to watch himself, transfixed as he edges himself along. The wet sounds of his jerking off layer over his open mouthed pants are so _loud_ , and his entire world narrows down to just this. He doesn't even know how long he stays like that, pathetic and strung out already.

When the door slides open again with its pneumatic hiss, Octane groans. He bites at the back of his free hand and tightly grips his length at the base, fingers encircling it without struggle as he attempts to restrain himself. Caustic isn't in his full suit, but his half respirator mask has been exchanged for version with goggles attached, and his bulky gloves are clutched in one hand.

All the better to watch and partake in the kill, up close and personal. Octane shivers.

"Insatiable," Caustic says, closing the gap between them, and he radiates heat like a banked fire. It's hard to tell the disdain apart from the interest. "How _surprising_ your acquiescence is. it appears that you _do_ possess the ability to retain information, an observation previously unseen."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, _mi rey_." Octane waves one hand with a flourish, but the words are slowly delivered; he's very out of breath. "That's the whole point of this thing, _sí_?"

"Ah, a partial truth. Whether or not _you_ are worthy of my interest remains to be seen." Caustic chuckles. "I must admit, however, that the phenomenon you seek is a desire we share."

 _Mierda,_ desire was too weak a word. All he wants to do is lean forwards until he can encircle his arms around Caustic's hips to nuzzle at his thigh, mouth at his groin, unbutton his slacks and-- Instead, he's good. He's "patient", sitting back on his haunches with a metallic creak. Octane's always been an open book, and right now it's real, _real_ easy to tell that he's a wreck on the verge of utter collapse like a building slipping into quicksand, both inside and out. He trains his hazy gaze on Caustic with a wordless whine, head tipping backwards in supplication. 

He is red faced and open mouthed, he is sweat drenched and scarred. He needs something, _anything_ , and his frantic prayers to a god he doesn't believe in are answered in the form of two large fingers sliding between his parted lips. They press heavy on his tongue, cool against the searing velvet of his mouth, and he tastes like antibacterial soap and skin. Like chemicals. It's another reminder of who he's with, who he's giving himself over to.

With a clinical hand, Caustic runs the pads of his fingers along each of Octane's teeth, inspecting them like an owner does a show animal's. Detached, yet possessive. Something to be inspected and owned, and he just can't get enough. Drool slides down his chin as he does his best to swallow around them, and his fingers turn into claws against his thighs. Experimentally, Caustic thrusts his fingers deeper until they hit the back of Octane's mouth, waiting out each gag before doing it again, building up a deliberately erratic rhythm. His chest heaves as his throat attempts to reject the intrusion, but all the same, Octane smiles around them.

He can take everything Caustic can dish out and more, and he can fucking prove it.

Caustic hums to himself, sliding his fingers out, deliberately rubbing his forefinger along the jagged edge of Octane's broken buck tooth, and cups his jaw tight, shaking it a little. "Just the one tooth, then. I was concerned your mouth would be too much of a hazard to be _useful_." 

"Just the one, _amigo_ ," he wheezes in confirmation, nodding a little as he leans into Caustic's grip, needy and boneless. "Dude, just-- _Te lo ruego_. _Please_."

He hardly knows what he's even begging for in specificity, but all the same Caustic releases his hold and smacks his cheek _hard_ before pulling on his gloves. The nox grenade peeks out of one of his labcoat's pockets, something that he finally retrieves.

"This one has not yet seen field testing," Caustic says, shaking it lightly. "I deemed it a failure for that purpose. It has... a delayed onset, and its effects aren't efficient enough for fast-paced combat." He tosses the grenade in his palm a few times, weight its heft. "It is fortuitous indeed that the fruits of my labor will not go to waste."

He twists it, tossing it on to the ground with a clatter. Immediately, plumes of green bloom from its base, filling the air until Octane can hardly see through the billowing haze. Blindly, he reaches out until his fingers snag on a pants leg, anchoring himself as he sucks in breath after breath of poison. It's not as bad as it usually is in the games: already he's tearing up, but his lungs don't burn yet. It's like sucking in too hard on a cigarette, acrid but nothing else.

His skin feels funny, and Octane's not sure if it's numbing or hypersensitivity, unable to tell the difference.

Caustic drops down to one knee again, eagerly watching as he finally palms himself in his pants with a bulky glove. "It is a pity you're not yet equipped with any monitoring. Mere observations will have to do, this time." 

Octane's nods mutely, blinking his eyes rapidly as a thousand tiny daggers begin their assault, tingling sharp. He shudders, falling forward until he's slumped against Caustic's front, hands shaking as he tries to push himself back, muscles going weak. Caustic pulls him up by the back of his shirt and then holds him up with a heavy hand around his throat. Propped up, like a puppet or a doll, because he's almost useless already.

"This is _delayed_?" He coughs wetly, and the words come out funny. His lungs are full of jello, and that's familiar enough. Blood is filling his lungs. "I can't--" Violently, he heaves and vomits blood and spittle, coppery and vile on his tongue. "I can't _move,"_ he moans, head lolling down so he can see his still-hard cock-- and Caustic's, too. He's not shy about rubbing himself now, jerking himself through his pants as he watches Octane die.

Weakly, he turns his eyes upwards as best he can, and the glint in the scientist's eyes are those of a mad one's. He shudders, sees his own blood in little spots against his starched white coat, and that does things for him. It's all doing things for him, his synapses firing in every direction. Pain is pain and agony is agony, but the rush of jumping in front of train transcends it all. 

"Ah," Caustic says, almost fond, caressing Octane's carotid with a gloved thumb. He looks wistful that he can't quite feel his weakening pulse through bulky fabric. "I hadn't expected the paralysis to set in quite so _soon_. You have less mass than my usual test subjects, I suppose." Octane barely hears the words as he coughs up sticky red again, unable to do anything but spit and watch how it drips onto Caustic's glove. His face is wet, but it's not the right viscosity to be only tears, so it must _also_ be blood.

Caustic lets him fall back in a heap, hips sliding forward as his prosthetic legs move forward when the rest of him... can't. It leaves him splayed on his back, too weak to prop himself up on his elbows, head just barely supported by the glass, and he's grateful for it. It means he gets to see Caustic wipe the blood off his bare, fluttering chest before taking Octane's flagging erection in hand.

The harsh fabric and tight grip should hurt more than it does, but it seems that the rest of him feels... not there. Like the local anesthesia of a syringe but it's head to toe. When he pants, he can't retract his tongue. All of him is numb, and later he'll have to tell Caustic that this doesn't hurt as much as he thought it might. There's no doubt that he's dying; his heartbeat is getting sluggish, and he can feel the telltale black edges of unconsciousness creeping up on him. 

"I wonder," Caustic croons, jerking Octane's cock with a brutally tight hold with too much friction, just enough to be able to _feel it_ in his literal dying throes, "if you even _can_ find completion before your end. I'm unaware of how it affects genitalia and arousal, but you _are_ losing a great deal of blood. Your capillaries have burst, after all." 

The tingles of pleasure through the haze work in overdrive as Caustic talks to him in that filthy tone, as if he were saying something drenched in eroticism rather than scientific statements of a dying test subject.

Octane wouldn't have it any other way.

He shudders with another round full body coughs that end in him choking, and they don't move him as much as they should. His mouth stays full of sanguine saliva, overflowing even as it drips onto the floor. _Ay, Dios mío_ he wants to stay like this _forever_ , with his world balanced upon the knife's edge that is inevitable calamity, because it's such a fucking rush. The gas finally fades, but the damage is more than done. The chain reaction it set off of something sweet and horrible new is rapidly approaching its conclusion, racing against the way Caustic is fastidiously getting him off.

That's what finally pushes him weakly over the edge, balls tightening as he spills all over Caustic's hand after he's twists his wrist in a way that is particularly brutal. He's _soaring_ , hardly able to register the fact that Caustic is pulling his respirator down to lick his hand clean of _red_ and _come_ before he's separating from his bones and his ligaments and his skin and he's--

Coming to in medical.

His eyes fly open as he thrashes in his bed, breathing in huge gulps of dry, sterile air. He is alone in the regeneration room, not that the techs would bother asking him if he needs anything. The clock on his bedstand displays 0400 hours on the dot, which means they stuck him on the red eye rotation to get him out of their hair earlier than the rest of the legends lost in combat the day before. It means that today it's self serve resurrections r us, _and_ it means he's got some alone time for a second before he has to get out of their hair.

Holy shit, he fucking _needs_ it. The memories that filter back into his kind are overwhelming, and he desperately clings to every detail, furious that some of it slips away at the end as his mind had given up on him. His scheme had actually _worked_! Really, really well, at that. Better than he'd even dreamed of, and shit, he'd dreamed about it a _lot_ _._ Caustic was waaayy more into it than Octane had originally thought, but he shouldn't be so surprised. He's been on the good doctor's team a thousand times and heard _exactly_ how horny he is for death.

Sitting up, Octane shakes out all his limbs and cracks his neck, idly counting all of his scars in delayed autopilot. He's genuinely a little sad about the fact that all his well-earned bruises had disappeared, but is bolstered by the knowledge that there would _definitely_ be a next time or seven. He pats his crotch appreciatively, as if to thank his dick for weathering all that abuse, and, well...

Octane looks around, covertly checking for any lingering techs before roll onto his belly, clutching at his pillow with both hands. It was easy to imagine he was pressing his face against Caustic's belly, pressing up against it as he humps the bed, absolutely unconcerned about lasting in any capacity. He'd tested his willpower enough in the last 24 hours, and it's not like his body actually remembers that he'd gotten off in a truly explosive way.

Hurriedly, he thrusts against the mattress, biting his lip ragged with his broken tooth, huffing sharply as his mind replays his death in technicolor. All of his hypotheses were proven true: narrowly escaping death in the games doesn't have anything on chasing it with the desperation of an addict needing a new high. He's already jonesing for another hit, wants to watch it replayed on the security footage he _knows_ Caustic has to keep, wants to kick open his fucking lab door and scream at the top of his lungs to _go again_.

Octane comes with a rush and a loud moan, amazed that he'd managed to hold out for so long when he was this easy to get off. The promise of a prize large enough, probably, and Caustic was the fucking jackpot. He doesn't even care that he's made a mess in his pants, sticks his hand down them to wipe his cock clean and brings it up to lick it clean. He rolls back over with a huff, jiggling his prosthetic leg as he tries to figure out how long he'd have to wait before Caustic would want to go again--

A throat clears behind him politely, and a shiver runs right up Octane's spine. He turns, already wincing, as a bemused Wattson offers him one of the medical provided antibacterial wipes. Guh, of all the fucking people to find him, it had to be the one that he's actually a little sorry to expose himself to. It's not like he's a shy guy, but Natalie is just... Natalie.

"Uh," he says, cleaning his hands before swinging his legs over the side of the bed, tapping his fingers against its edge. "There a reason you here at this hour, _chica_?"

She nods, clapping her hands together a little in a gentle move. "I came to collect you." Her lips turn upwards with a soft smile, clearly amused by his mortification, if nonchalant about it. "It's time to pack. We've leaving the canyon!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you ever just write like 4k about a singular boner? ya? me either
> 
> GOD i have had some truly wicked writer's block and have been kind of (really!!) scared of not being able to live up to my own potential here, BUT THE NEXT STEP IS FINALLY HERE! thanks for waiting, i appreciate it :D
> 
> /chants NEIGHBORS, NEIGHBORS, NEIGHBORS
> 
> \--
> 
> again, the spanish is a bit limited, suggestions/corrections welcome!
> 
> te lo ruego = i beg you

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [dangerjunkie](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, all asks/dms/etc welcome! I would truly welcome like-minded company!
> 
> I've relocated my various lore headcanons to tumblr for archiving, as they're adding up:
> 
> [The Apex Games Rule Book](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186314846212/apex-legends-rule-book) \- How respawning works, how bodies and minds are stored through repeated lives, how death boxes work, etc
> 
> [Observing the Apex Games](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186342131147/observing-the-apex-games) \- How cameras and surveillance work in the ring, scheduling, and "time outs" from being observed
> 
> [The Apex Games Compound](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186362127192/the-apex-games-compound) \- The details of the compound that Legends live in while the games are on
> 
> I've also put together a(n ever evolving) playlist over [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2sxZKXGAlGHY1RDIlZmrNi), which is about as dissonant and intense and stupid as you might image, in about equal measure.


End file.
